


Victim to Villain

by ashisverymuchonfire



Category: Bandom, Pierce the Veil, Sleeping With Sirens
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homeless, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Murder, Past Abuse, Past Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, a lotta dark stuff basically, kellic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 00:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4040176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisverymuchonfire/pseuds/ashisverymuchonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kellin Quinn's life has dealt him nothing but a series of bad hands. Though cautious of every person he comes into contact with, he finds himself growing attached to Vic Fuentes, whose life might be just as fucked up as his. But things are far from sunshine and rainbows, and this next bad hand just might make them both snap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Victim

**Author's Note:**

> This is a two-shot. This fic is going to be quite dark and depressing, dealing with issues such as violence, abuse, suicidal thoughts, and other joyful things of that nature. Read at your own risk.

Well, it looks like I’m crying again.  
  
It’s not much of a surprise, really, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell. It does. I should be used to the pain, the terrors, the negative emotions that never seem to leave me alone…but I’m not. So here I go again, letting the tears stream down my face.  
  
I’m lying in a dark alley in the city, where I usually sleep. I’ve just woken up from yet another nightmare, one of punches to the jaw and kicks to the ribs, one of harsh words spit out between cracked lips. It’s even worse because these are not just nightmares, but memories, and they’re memories of most of my life, not just one event. They’re memories of every single person who has touched me, and it has never been in a good way. Every moment of contact that has been made has left a scar, if not on my body, then on my heart, on my soul, on my very fucking being.  
  
I can’t even comfort myself with the thought that I’m okay now, because I’m not. I’m living on the streets, alone, where anyone could find me and hurt me. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. So I just cry, sitting up against the wall and hugging my legs to my chest.  
  
 _Kellin Quinn,_  says a voice in my head,  _you deserve every single one of these tears. You deserve the nightmares. You deserve what they all did to you._  
  
As if I don’t already know that.  
  
My heart starts to pound when I hear footsteps coming my way, and I cover my mouth with my hands to stifle some of the sobs. My fear quickly subsides, though, when a thought occurs to me: This person could kill me.  
  
It’s a thought that has been dancing around in my mind for a while, but I’ve always been too afraid to act on it. I don’t know what it is that I’m afraid of, because it certainly isn’t death. Maybe it’s the possibility that I’ll fail, that I’ll just end up bringing myself more pain in the process of trying to end it. But for all I know, this person could be a serial killer, out looking for a new victim. A serial killer wouldn’t fail. I’ve already been a victim to everything else out there, so why not add “murder” to the list?  
  
So instead of running, I stay in the same position, still crying steadily and not even bothering to wipe the tears away. Maybe this person will take the hint and put me out of my misery.  
  
When he gets closer, I can confirm that, yes, the person is a “he”, as far as I can tell. He’s lean but not bony, with darker-looking skin and long, messy hair. He seems to be somewhere around my age, which means that he’s a teenager, and unfortunately, he’s not as scary and murderous-looking as I hoped he would be. He does see me, though, and that makes him stop right in his tracks.  
  
For a moment, we both just stare at each other, and I can’t help but hope that he’ll take out a gun and put it to my head, pull the trigger and blow my brains out. But he doesn’t. He just…stares. It kind of makes me feel uncomfortable, like he’s judging my worth. I thought it was obvious that I’m not worth anything. He shouldn’t have to take so long to figure that out.  
  
"Hey," the guy says finally, his voice somehow soft and rough at the same time. "You okay?"  
  
I take a deep, shaky breath. I don’t have the energy to reply with some sarcastic comment, like  _Well, what does it look like?_  So I just say, “No.”  
  
The guy stares at me for a little while longer. I can’t read any of his emotions—though none of them seem to resemble anger, which is the only emotion I’m used to seeing—so I have no idea what he’s thinking. After what feels like forever, though, he sits down next to me.  
  
I’m not quite sure how to react to that, so I just slightly shift away from him, burying my face in my knees. I feel the guy’s hand lightly touch my shoulder, and automatically, I let out a whimper, shrinking even farther into myself. “Please don’t hurt me,” I plead without thinking.  _I don’t want to be hurt. I want to be dead._  
  
The guy takes his hand away immediately, and when I lift my head up to look at him, I notice that he’s put a little bit of space between us, as if to make sure that no part of him is touching me. He’s looking at me sympathetically, I think, as if he might understand. What a strange thought, someone  _understanding_.  
  
"I’m Vic," the guy says. "I’m not going to hurt you."  
  
What’s even stranger is that I find myself believing him.  
  
I nod slowly, and it’s only now that I start to wipe away some of my tears. “I-I’m Kellin,” I stutter, my voice uneven.  
  
"Kellin?" Vic repeats, sending me a questioning look, as if asking whether or not he got it right.  
  
I just nod. “Uh-huh.”  
  
He nods back, studying me. I don’t know what he’s doing that for, but his eyes don’t seem as harsh as the eyes of most of the people I’ve met out here. His eyes look dark and sweet, like chocolate. They don’t look like the eyes of a bad person. I don’t normally meet people who aren’t bad, though, so maybe those soft brown eyes are just deceptive.  
  
"Do you live out here?" he asks. "Like, on the streets? Or do you have a home?"  
  
I shake my head. “I live out here. No home,” I say, and then I wonder why I’m even speaking to him. With most other people, I’d have run away by now. I never would’ve answered questions like these.  
  
"Me too," Vic replies. After a few more moments’ pause, he slowly asks, "So…why were you…?"  
  
I bite my lip, not wanting to relive what made the tears spring up in the first place. “I had a dream. About people.”  
  
He must think I’m so dumb and incompetent, with the way I’m speaking. I don’t want to elaborate any further, though, so I just leave my explanation at that.  
  
"People?" he repeats, nodding slowly. "Good people? Bad people?"  
  
I cringe as an image flashes through my head, an image of a hand coming down on my face. I flinch at the moment when it would’ve hit me, if it were real. “Bad people,” I confirm. Then, just so he won’t pry any more, I add, “I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
Vic just nods, looking like he wants to do something but knows that he shouldn’t. “So,” he he says thoughtfully. “What’s your favorite color?”  
  
I narrow my eyes, my tears slowing down a little. “My—my favorite color?” _What does that have to do with anything?_  
  
"Yeah." He shrugs. "I don’t know, I was just trying to find something that wasn’t too depressing."  
  
I look away. “I don’t think I have one. But color doesn’t really matter anyways.”  
  
"It does if you’re not white," Vic mutters. He frowns at that, seeming to have some split-second battle with himself, before shaking his head as if to clear it. "Never mind. I think I’m gonna try to get some sleep." He rubs his eye, looking up at the still-black sky. "You?"  
  
I bite my lip. “I guess I’ll try.”  
  
His eyes flutter closed, and only a few seconds later, I can visibly see him relax against the wall as he falls asleep—he must’ve been really tired. It takes a bit longer for me, but before I know it, I’m following in his footsteps. I’m about to fall out of consciousness when I hear him stir, and then he reaches out and puts an arm around me, pulling me closer and letting me rest my head on his shoulder. My body tenses up, because at first I think he’s going to snap my neck or something, but he just holds me, and it’s a sensation so unfamiliar that I don’t know what to make of it. It’s human contact. It’s supposed to hurt…right? That’s all we seem to do—hurt each other.  
  
But this doesn’t hurt, and after a few seconds, it doesn’t scare me that much, either. His touches are light and calm and comforting, and somehow I know it right then, right as I’m dancing between sleep and wakefulness: I can trust him. If nothing else, that’s something I think I can count on.  
  
—  
  
I don’t have any nightmares, and when I wake up the next morning, I find Vic already awake and still with me, both of us in the same position we were in last night. “Not to be rude,” I say slowly, sitting up and shifting a little, “but…why are you still here?”  
  
He shrugs. “If you want me to leave, I will. I guess I just thought…I don’t know. Maybe we could be allies, so we don’t have to survive on our own.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m just thinking out loud. I can go if you want me t—”  
  
"I don’t want you to," I interrupt, surprising not only him, but myself as well.  
  
Vic just nods. “Okay.” And that’s that.  
  
The day is mostly spent roaming around the city and scavenging for food. This is what I normally do, but somehow it doesn’t feel as pathetic and lonely as it usually does. It’s like he and I are in this together, like he’s on my side, and that’s not something I think I’ve ever felt before. Everyone else that I’ve met has been so against me from the very beginning. I’ve got the scars to prove it.  
  
And the whole day, we talk. We talk about so many different things that I normally never think about because I’m too busy worrying about where I’m going to get food, where I’m going to sleep, and who’s going to cross my path. Vic seems to take those worries away, or at least lessen them. It’s not necessarily that he’s all happy and cheerful (he isn’t, really); it’s just that he talks easily and about things that aren’t too difficult to talk about. It’s like last night—like he already knows how sensitive I can be to certain things, so he keeps the conversation relatively light and casual. It’s almost like we’re not two dirty, homeless street kids looking for a place to stay.  
  
At the end of the day, not long after the sun has set completely, we find what feels like a jackpot: a small abandoned building at the edge of the city, where almost no one ever steps foot. Some of it looks like it’s been burned down, but it’s still intact for the most part. The best part is that when we step inside, we’re not attacked by someone who might’ve already been staying there. It doesn’t really look inhabited, either, though Vic and I decide to stay awake a bit later just in case we have to run from someone who might come back.  
  
We end up sleeping on the floor a few feet away from each other. I haven’t slept easily for most of my life, so of course I stay awake a bit longer than he does, though I notice that he’s awake for a while, too. I’ve been slightly more optimistic today, so I almost don’t expect the nightmares to come tonight.  _Almost._  But I know better than that.  
  
There’s darkness and pain as I’m knocked to the ground, a looming figure standing over me that smells of ashtrays, and a combination of drugs. I try to push myself back up to my feet, but that results only in being knocked down again, more violent this time. Of course. I know better than to fight back. It lasts longer when I fight back.  
  
I can see faint flashes of light, but it’s not enough for me to be able to tell who this person is. I’ve had so many people beat me that I can’t even keep them straight anymore, and they’ve all had that same fucking scent.  
  
It doesn’t matter who it is, though. What matters is that I can taste blood in my mouth, can feel it dripping down into my eyes. What matters is that the person takes their cigarette and presses it into my skin, burning me and making me cry out. What matters is that when the person calls me a stupid, worthless fag, I believe it. What matters is that this has happened to me more times than I could ever count, that these memories are so deeply ingrained in me that they haunt me in my subconscious almost every single night.  
  
"Hey. Wake up. Hey. Kellin!"  
  
I hear the voice, but it’s not until my actual name is spoken that I find myself being dragged out into wakefulness—no one ever calls me by my name, just “fag” or something of the sort. I’m shaking and crying once again, my breathing fast and my lips moving without my consent: “Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t, please…”  
  
The voice makes some soft hushing noises, and I realize that that voice belongs to Vic. He’s running his fingers through my hair, his free hand holding onto mine as my mantra changes: “I want to die, I want to die…I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”  
  
Vic doesn’t comment on those words; in fact, he doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps doing what he’s doing, comforting me until I calm down and am able to form a more coherent sentence. His hands are rough and calloused, but they handle me with such tenderness and compassion.  
  
"I had a nightmare," I say finally, taking a deep breath. "Again."  
  
He changes his position, lying down next to me so that we’re at eye level. “That’s okay,” he says softly. “I get ‘em, too.”  
  
"You do?" I ask. That’s surprising—he always seems so strong.  
  
He nods, flashing me a sad smile. “You think you’re the only one who’s fucked up around here?”  
  
And it’s those words that make me realize something. They make me realize that he’s been hurt, too—that he’s been sad, that he’s been angry, and that maybe he still is. They make me realize that behind everything else, there are scars on his heart, too, just like there are on mine. They make me realize that he really does understand, and that thought takes my breath away.  
  
"You’re the first person I’ve ever met," I find myself saying. "The first person who…y’know,  _understands_.”  
  
"Funny," Vic replies, "because I could say the same about you."  
  
—  
  
From that moment on, we enter a sort of partnership. We spend the days with each other, talk to each other, trust each other. It feels so incredible, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I’d lost hope in finding happiness, in finding someone who wouldn’t mistreat me. I’d come to believe that there was no such thing as loyalty or friendship or compassion, that it was all just some crazy lie created to keep us alive, to keep us chasing after something that doesn’t exist.  
  
"What are you thinking about?" Vic asks me one night as I’m sitting against the wall, staring off into space. He’s been lying down, trying to get to sleep, but now he’s sitting up, across from me. It’s been a couple of weeks, I think, since we first met, though I can hardly keep track of the days anymore.  
  
"Just…us," I reply. "It still feels so unreal. Like it’s too good to be true."  
  
"I know what you mean," he says, nodding. After a short pause, he adds, "Do you have any idea how close I was to doing it?"  
  
"Doing what?" I think I already know what he means, though.  
  
"Killing myself," he says simply, looking away. "That night…if I hadn’t seen you, I probably wouldn’t be here right now. I was walking down that alley because it was on the way to one of the tallest buildings in the city. And if I hadn’t seen you and stopped, I would’ve gone to the roof of that building, and, well…"  
  
"Why did you want to do that?" I blurt, and he gives me a surprised look. Neither of us have ever talked much about these things, and we’ve never really asked each other, either. It’s just been a silent agreement, that we don’t talk about it. The mutual understanding has been enough. There have been a few nights where our roles were reversed and I had to wake Vic up from a nightmare, but we never talk much about those, either. It’s all just seemed a bit private. Now, though, I want to know the cause of his suicidal thoughts. I want to know everything about him.  
  
"For probably the same reason that you want to," he says after a long pause. "I didn’t want to feel the pain anymore. But now…it hurts a little bit less. Because now I have hope that things can change for the better, even when you’ve hit rock bottom."  
  
I smile at that—it feels so fucking good to smile. “Yeah,” I agree. “It can.” For a moment, we’re just staring at each other, but then, in a more serious tone, I add, “Thank you. For…for keeping yourself alive.” I narrow my eyes in confusion. “Why did you do that, anyways? Keep yourself alive? You could’ve done it after I fell asleep. You could’ve just left for that building. But you didn’t. You stayed.”  
  
"I wanted to make sure you’d be okay," he explains. "That’s what made me stay alive. I saw something in you—potential—and I decided that I wanted to help you so you didn’t waste it. I kind of felt like a hypocrite, but I didn’t really care. I just felt like there was a good person behind all those tears. And then, well, I guess I kind of…I formed an attachment to you." He shrugs. "And I don’t regret it."  
  
It’s so amazing to me, how he’s admitting all this. It makes me feel like we’re really close, like he can trust me with his secrets and I can trust him with mine. I like it. I like  _him_.  
  
Vic moves closer to me so that we’re facing the same direction, his back now against the wall as he sits next to me. “I want to tell you what fucked me up,” he says slowly, cautiously, deliberately, his gaze locking with mine. “I want…I want you to know how I ended up like this, if you’ll tell me the same thing.”  
  
My heart starts beating faster at that, but I nod anyways. “Okay.”  
  
And then he tells me everything.  
  
Well, he leaves out quite a few details, but he tells me enough that I understand. He tells me about how his father hit them—him, his mother, and his brother Mike. He tells me about how his dad went too far one night killed his mom, which led to him and Mike finding sanctuary at their grandparents’ house. He tells me about how he and Mike got beat up at school by a bunch of racist kids, which explains what he responded when I stated that color doesn’t matter. “We weren’t even fully Hispanic!” he says angrily. “My mom was  _Irish_ , for God’s sake. But, I mean, it’s not like they knew that. Or that they would’ve cared either way.”  
  
He tells me about how his grandparents both died of old age while he and Mike were still in high school, leaving them with nowhere to go, so they took to the streets. He tells me about how Mike got killed in cold blood by a gang. He tells me about how one of the other members took a liking to him afterward, so they took him in, and he agreed only because he needed somewhere to go. He tells me about how that one member gradually broke down his barriers, how he was starting to think that maybe things weren’t all bad when his life turned to shit once again.  
  
He tells me about how that relationship turned abusive, how that gang member liked to beat him and bruise him just so he could kiss it all better. He tells me about how he might not have gotten out of it if the guy hadn’t been killed in a feud with another gang. He tells me about how that experience was what made him completely lose whatever faith in the world that he may have had left.  
  
I barely notice the tears quietly making their way down my face yet again as he finishes up the story of his life. There’s an ache in my chest from hearing about all the shit that the universe has thrown at him. He’s the best person I’ve ever met—which isn’t much of an achievement, since I’ve met very few people who are even half-decent, but still—and here he is, talking about the hell that he’s been put through.  
  
And then it’s my turn, so—again, leaving out a few details—I do the same thing.  
  
I tell him about how even the way I was created is fucked, a product of forced conception from an innocent fifteen-year-old girl. I tell him about how I was given to a family that didn’t want me, how I was beaten because of it. I tell him about how I was constantly sent from one house to another, and in the shithole that I lived in, they were all the same: drug addicts and dealers and abusers, leaving me bleeding on the floor. I tell him about how the kids at school beat me up, too, just for the sheer enjoyment of causing pain to someone smaller than them. I tell him about how they all—the people at home and the people at school—called me more or less the same thing: a stupid, worthless fag who does nothing but fuck up.  
  
I tell him about how, since I always lived with addicts and dealers, I got ahold of some of their drugs in order to drown out the pain. I tell him about how they’d beat me even more when they found out, but I’d already gotten myself hooked, so I kept doing it, and it turned into a vicious cycle. I tell him about how when I was finally able to run away, I couldn’t use those drugs anymore because I had nothing to supply them, so I had to stop and deal with the withdrawal. I tell him about how I’ve been attacked by gangs since I escaped to the streets, how because of that, I never stopped living in fear.  
  
I tell him about how I was trying to make it until I turned eighteen, but I ran away early because of the person I’d been with, who had fucked me up beyond repair, even more than any of the others, and I couldn’t deal with that for one more day. I tell him about how I tried to kill myself while I was living there, how the guy found me slitting my wrists in the bathroom and forced me to stop before I got too far.  
  
When I say this, Vic takes hold of one of my wrists, and sure enough, the scars still remain. He runs his fingers softly across them, looking so…sad.  
  
Neither of us say anything after I’m done talking. We just sit in silence as we fall asleep, my head on his shoulder, and just as I’m about to drift off, I’m pretty sure that I feel him give me a kiss on the cheek.  
  
—  
  
I think I’m feeling something for Vic.  
  
I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s something, something that might be just a little bit more than friendship. I don’t want to say that I’m in love with him, or even that I have a crush on him, because I don’t know what either of those things feels like. But here’s what I  _do_  know: I know that I am not opposed to his light, comforting touches. I know that I feel connected to him—even more so after leaving everything out in the open—and I want it to last forever. I know that when we lock eyes, it seems to fill my stomach with butterflies (but in a good way), seems to lift me up so that I feel like I’m walking on air. I know that I smile whenever I think of that little kiss. I know that I can’t picture this with anyone else; I want my head on only his shoulder, want only his lips to brush against my cheek again. I want only him.  
  
And I’m not sure what to make of that.  
  
"What’s got you all smiley?" Vic teases, snapping me out of my thoughts. We’re sitting down in the alley next to the building we’ve claimed, just talking about things. We’ve hung out here before, so it’s not as sinister as it might’ve been otherwise, especially not since it’s the middle of the day.  
  
"Uh, nothing," I reply, embarrassed.  
  
"It’s okay," Vic says, smiling back at me. "It’s cute."  
  
"Cute?" I repeat, perking up a little bit more. "You think I’m cute?"  
  
"What? When did I say that?" Vic stutters, his face turning a soft shade of red. "I didn’t—no. Who’s cute? You’re not. Wait, I didn’t mean—I mean, you  _are_ , but—I didn’t mean to—I—what?”  
  
I can’t help but giggle (yes, fucking  _giggle_ ). I don’t know what he’s trying to say, but I think he’s even more embarrassed than I am.  
  
Neither of us say anything for a few moments. Vic is staring at me now, a strange look on his face as his gaze drifts slightly downward from my eyes, to…my  _lips_?  
  
Before I have time to react, he leans forward and kisses me tenderly. It only lasts a few seconds, and when he pulls away, his eyes are wide, as if he’s afraid that he’s ruined things between us.  
  
But my heart is soaring, my lips already missing his. “Do that again,” I breathe.  
  
And so he does it again.  
  
The butterflies in my stomach are going crazy as he reaches up and touches my cheek. The kiss stays sweet and innocent for a little but soon shifts to something a bit more passionate, a kiss of pent-up longing and new feelings waiting to be explored. Vic switches his position so that he’s on top of me, his legs spread out on either side of me, as if to keep me in place. He sighs into my mouth, possibly the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, and gently pushes me up against the wall.  
  
It’s all good and well until he grabs me by the wrists and pins them to the wall, too; it makes me think of a completely different moment, and I gasp, my eyes flying open and my heart beating fast. “Wait!”  
  
He must be able to sense my panic, because he stops kissing me immediately and lets go of my wrists, instead resting his hands on the wall on either side of my head. For a few seconds, we just stare at each other, and then, softly, as if sharing a secret, he asks, “Are you a virgin?”  
  
The question seems completely random, especially since I don’t think either of us were planning on having sex just now, but I know what he’s really trying to ask.  
  
"No," I answer, my voice cracking. I shake my head. "No. I’m not."  
  
I don’t have to say anything else. I don’t have to further explain why the last guy I lived with was so much worse than the others, why he fucked me up even more than anyone else. It’s written—I can tell—all over my face.  
  
Vic climbs off of me, returning to his original position next to me. “I’m sorry,” he says, careful not to touch any part of me, just like the night we met. “Really, I am. I should’ve known. I just got so carried away and I—”  
  
I quiet his words with a kiss of my own. “It’s not your fault,” I say, taking his hand and intertwining our fingers. I flash him a small smile, pushing any dark thoughts away. “I still like kissing you.”  
  
His expression lights up. “So…what does this mean?” he asks. “For us?”  
  
I shrug, suddenly feeling shy. “I don’t know. What does it usually mean when two people feel things for each other and like to kiss each other?”  
  
"Well, in our case, I guess that means we could be boyfriends," he suggests, kissing me on the cheek. "You know, if you want to."  
  
My heart beats faster at that, but it’s in a good way, an excited way. “I want to,” I tell him. “I’ve never felt this before, but I want to.”  
  
"Boyfriends it is, then," he declares, grinning widely. Then our lips meet again, and we are just two fucked up street kids kissing in an alley, and things are actually pretty okay.  
  
—  
  
My relationship with Vic is a fairly simple one. In reality, not much has changed between us, since we were already so open with each other even before he became my boyfriend. Now, though, it feels like we can both be really, truly open about everything instead of having to hide our growing feelings for each other. Plus, the kissing is nice; actually, it’s better than that—it’s fucking great, one of the best things I have ever experienced.  
  
We’re both careful with each other, too, wary of each other’s sensitivity as we run our fingers across each other’s bodies. It gets less scary over time, for both of us, I think. We’re learning how to touch and be touched, and how to feel fearless when we do it.  
  
There’s also more affection. It gets cold at night sometimes, but even when it isn’t, we tend to snuggle on the floor, Vic’s arms around my waist and my back against his chest. He found an old, tattered blanket recently, so when it’s cold, we wrap it around ourselves as a makeshift sleeping bag, and when it’s warmer, we just sleep on it.  
  
It’s one of those warmer nights, so that’s what we’re doing right now, but I make sure my body is still pressed right up against his. I like hearing his soft breathing in my ear as he sleeps. I like the little things that he does unknowingly, like the way he snores ever-so-slightly or the way that he draws random invisible designs on my skin with his fingers.  
  
Outside, I hear footsteps, and my heart starts beating faster. I snuggle closer to Vic, hoping they’ll fade away, but they don’t. They stop, right next to the building.  
  
 _Please go away,_  I plead silently.  _Please go away. Please don’t hurt us._  
  
"We know you’re in there," a gruff voice says, and I nearly stop breathing. "Come out here and there won’t be any problems."  
  
Who the hell are these people, and what do they want from us? My instincts tell me to hide, but I’m afraid of what will happen if I do that. Seeing no other choice but to go outside and figure out what’s going on without violence, I crawl out of Vic’s arms—he automatically pulls me closer to him, and I hate pushing him away—and stand up, taking a few hesitant steps forward.  
  
"Think they’re sleeping and can’t hear us?" asks a different voice, but then I exit the building and turn into the alley, where I find the sources of the footsteps and voices. "Oh," the guy says. "Guess not."  
  
There are three of them, all big and imposing. Fear settles itself into my bones—I’ve never been a very good fighter, and I’ve been commissioned to think that if I even try, it’ll just backfire. Now I kind of want to wake Vic up in the hopes that he’ll protect me, but I don’t want to bring him into this. I just want to settle whatever’s happening and go back to sleep.  
  
"Uh, y-yeah, I’m awake," I stutter. "What do you—what do you want?"  
  
The guys exchange glances, and then the biggest one steps forward. “Where’s your friend?” he demands menacingly, and I can tell by his voice that he’s the first one who spoke.  
  
"I, u-um…I don’t know what you’re—what you’re talking about." The lie feels so obvious, burning in my throat. "I live alone."  
  
"Bullshit," the second guy says. "We saw you with him earlier today."  
  
"That must’ve been s-someone else. I told you, I don’t know what you’re—" I cut myself off when the first guy gives me a death glare. It’s no use pretending. I let out a shaky sigh. "What do you want with him?"  
  
"We just want to chat," says the second guy. "We’ve got some things to discuss."  
  
"And we can do it the easy way or the hard way," the first guy—the leader, probably—adds.  
  
I highly doubt their intentions are as innocent as they claim them to be. Stubbornly, I find myself shaking my head, thinking only of protecting Vic. It scares the hell out of me, but I force myself to look the leader in the eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you speak with him.”  
  
At those words, a fist connects with my face.  
  
The panic that ensues feels older than life itself, running rampant through my body like it’s been waiting for its moment to break free. I duck down automatically, wincing at the pain, and that’s when I hear shuffling from inside. “Vic,  _no_!” I shout, but it’s too late.  
  
He skids around the corner like my knight in shining armor, but I think we both know that that’s not true—unless he can negotiate with these guys, he doesn’t stand a chance against them, and neither do I.  
  
"Get the fuck away from him!" he yells, grabbing my arms and dragging me away, placing himself in front of me. I can hear his breath catch in his throat when he gets a glimpse of my attackers—he knows them from somewhere.  
  
"Oh, hey there, Vic," the second guy says, fake-smiling. "Long time no see."  
  
Then the guys are on him, too, grabbing him as he tries in vain to fight back. I step forward, about to join the fray in a desperate attempt to save him, when the third guy—who still hasn’t spoken—takes ahold of me and slams me roughly against the wall. There’s a loud cracking sound and a splitting pain in my head, and I let out a short, high-pitched cry. I want to move, but even after he’s let go of me, I find myself sliding down onto the ground, the world spinning, my vision blurring, blood dripping into my eyes. “V-Vic,” I gasp out.  
  
"Kellin!" Vic replies, and then, among the sounds of fighting, I hear some sort of vehicle pulling up.  
  
"Our ride’s here!" the second guy proclaims. I force my eyes open and try to stand up, but my body doesn’t seem to be cooperating with me.  
  
"Kellin!" Vic repeats, his voice louder and starting to crack in what sounds like fear. " _Kellin_!”  
  
I pull myself to my feet, my eyes widening when I see Vic, who is bruised, bloody, and about to be dragged into the back of an old car. The leader opens one of the doors and shoves him in like he’s nothing, but just before that, Vic looks at me with pain and terror in his expression, mouthing the words  _I love you_.  
  
"I’ll—I’ll get help!" I scream as the world starts to close in around me. "I’ll find you somehow!  _Vic_!”  
  
There are tears streaming down my face. This can’t be the end. He can’t just be taken away from me like that, taken away by dangerous people to God-knows-where. As the guys all hop in and drive away, I take a few hopeless steps forward, falling to my knees.  
  
"Someone help!" I call out, knowing it’s no use—nobody’s ever shown sympathy for a pathetic street kid like me. "Someone help me,  _please_!”  
  
I’m working myself up, hyperventilating, but I don’t care. He’s gone. He’s gone and I have to find him, but I don’t know how.  
  
 _I love you._  Those are words neither of us ever spoke before, but I know it’s true. He loves me. I didn’t think it was possible.  
  
"I love you, too," I say softly, though I know he can’t hear me. The image of Vic’s bloodstained body injects itself into my veins, burns itself into my brain, and that’s the last thing I know before I pass out.


	2. Villain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hey, so this is the second part of this two-shot, which means that, obviously, this is the end of the story. there will be blood. and kissing. and murder. enjoy.

A lot can change in three years.  
  
Three years from now, you could’ve met the love of your life. You could’ve gotten addicted to drugs. You could’ve gone to prison. You could’ve won the lottery. You could’ve died.  
  
And, in my case, you could’ve lost your mind.  
  
I’ve made peace with it, really. It’s okay. It happens. We go crazy. I mean, everyone else was already crazy, so it was only a matter of time before I joined the party. Let me tell you, it’s a lot more fun once you just accept that you’re fucked up.  
  
Okay, I wouldn’t exactly call it  _fun_ , but at least I can sleep better at night not having to worry about what the hell has happened to my mind. I know what happened to it: It decided that it just couldn’t take being sane any longer. It gave up on fighting and let me descend. But it happens to everyone, right?  
  
Besides, I’m not  _that_  crazy.  
  
—  
  
It’s the scream that catches my attention.  
  
Three years ago, it would’ve scared the hell out of me, but now it just makes a smile appear on my lips. I head off down the city alley in the direction that the sounds are coming from—not only is there the scream; there are also pleas for mercy, sounds of struggling and sounds of pain. It’s music to my ears.  
  
When I turn the corner, I find myself behind a shitty-looking building, in a corner that seems like it hasn’t been visited in years—until now, that is. On the ground, there’s a man who looks to be in his thirties, clutching at a gaping wound in his stomach. Standing over him with a knife in his hand is a guy who looks oddly familiar, but I can’t see that well in the dark.  
  
Three years ago, I would’ve panicked at the possibility of running into someone I’ve met before, because I haven’t met many nice people. Now, though, I get excited—if this is someone who has wronged me, well, I’m not the helpless little kid I used to be.  
  
The man on the ground sees me and lifts his head up. “Help me!” he gasps out. “Call the police, an ambulance, something!”  
  
What he doesn’t realize is that that’s the last thing I’m going to do.  
  
The guy who’s standing spins around. Even though it’s dark out, I can see his face clearly, and by the widening of his eyes, I know that he can see my face, too. The world seems to stop. We recognize each other immediately.  
  
He’s hardened—I can tell. Everything about him has changed immeasurably yet stayed exactly the same. It’s all there in his face, in the way he carries himself, in the bloody knife he’s holding. Vic.  
  
I thought I’d never see him again.  
  
Not even the man screaming as he bleeds to death on the ground can take my attention away. I’m lost in a cacophony of thoughts and feelings and memories, memories of two fucked up kids who couldn’t fix each other—because that’s not possible, really—but found comfort and solace in each other nonetheless. I can remember the way he made my pathetic sixteen-year-old self feel, and what surprises me is how similar it was to what I’m feeling right now. It feels like a giant weight has suddenly been lifted off of my chest, as if I’ve been holding my breath for all this time, hoping somewhere in the back of my mind that he’d be okay after I witnessed his abduction.  
  
"Vic," I breathe.  
  
Vic seems alarmed, like a kid who’s been caught doing something bad by his parents, and after a few moments, I realize that it’s because I just ran into him while he was in the middle of  _murdering_  someone. He must think I’m horrified, but really, it’s the exact opposite. It’s comforting to know that he’s gone off the deep end, too. It makes me think that maybe I’m not so horrible, if someone as wonderful as him can have the same fate as me.  
  
I hold out my hand, trying to show him that he doesn’t have to worry about scaring me off. “Do you want some help?” I ask, nodding toward the still-breathing man on the ground.  
  
Vic raises his eyebrows, staring at me in disbelief for a few seconds before stepping forward and handing me his knife. He doesn’t say a word; he just steps away, as if he can sense that I know exactly what I’m doing.  
  
I flash the man on the ground a smile. He’s nearly dead already, but that doesn’t make it any less enjoyable when I slit his throat, hearing his cut-off scream and watching the blood bubble up and spill over. This is my favorite hobby.  
  
Okay, so maybe I  _am_  a little crazy.  
  
I turn back around. Vic’s expression seems to mirror my own, both of us smiling. Then my smile widens, because all of a sudden, it hits me:  _Vic_.  
  
"I can’t believe you’re here," I say, dropping the knife and stepping towards him. I rest my hand on his chest, just to make sure that he’s real—and he is. "I don’t know what to say."  
  
Vic still doesn’t speak, but when he wraps his arms around me and pulls me in close, it says everything that my tongue is unable to form. I hug him back, burying my face in his chest and breathing in his scent. I don’t want my words to ruin the moment, but I feel like I just have to say it: “I missed you.”  
  
Vic lifts my head up, gazing right into my eyes. His seem to have darkened from the things that he’s seen in the past few years, but they’re still so beautiful to me. “I missed you, too,” he says finally, his voice low and rough and raspy, and then he pulls me even closer and crashes our lips together.  
  
The kiss is long and hungry and passionate, my body pressed up against his and my fingers tangled in his messy hair. I can’t help but notice, though, that no matter how starving we seem to be for each other, we’re still careful where we need to be. He still remembers my boundaries, and I still remember his.  
  
As our lips collide, I can’t help but think that this is at least part of the reason why I haven’t been in a relationship at all these past three years: I’ve been waiting for him. I never wanted kisses or affection or anything like that from anyone else; it has always been  _only him_. And now he’s back, and so are the butterflies in my stomach—I didn’t think I’d ever feel them again.  
  
When we pull away, Vic glances at the dead man. “So,” he says slowly, “I guess you went a little crazy, too, huh?”  
  
I smile, because once again, he understands. He’s been feeling the same things that I have, and that restores some of my faith that maybe I’m not such a freak. I mean, obviously, I guess finding enjoyment in murder isn’t exactly  _okay_ , but at least I’m not alone in being fucked up and insane.  
  
"We’d better get out of here," I say, taking his hand, which feels so warm and familiar. He just nods and lets me lead him to the abandoned warehouse I’m currently hiding out in. I can’t stay in one place for too long in case someone gets suspicious of me, but I’m still in the same city, and I’ve even come back to spots I’ve stayed at before, like that building Vic and I found so long ago, which, I’ll admit, I return to most often. I make sure that when I kill, it seems random, with no pattern for the police to follow. I think I’m doing a pretty decent job of covering up my tracks, actually, though it’s not too hard in a place like this. People don’t pay much attention to casual stabbings or anything like that. I can’t be too sure, though, or I’ll probably end up jinxing myself.  
  
I got used to sleeping alone after Vic was taken away—it’s not like I didn’t do that every night before I met him—but it’s still so much better to have him by my side, wrapping his arms around my waist with his chest against my back and his breathing in my ear, as if he never even left. I close my eyes and let out a sigh of contentment. I have so many things I want to talk to him about, so many things I want to ask him, but right now, I just want to sleep with him.  
  
Well, would you look at that? I didn’t think I was even still capable of love.  
  
—  
  
In the morning, I bombard Vic with my questions like a young child: “How did you get away? What happened? What have you been doing? Who were those guys, anyways?”  
  
Vic holds his hands up, like he’s gesturing for me to slow down. “Okay,” he says, sitting next to me up against the wall of the warehouse. “The guys were members of the gang I was, uh…you know,  _involved_  with.” He bites his lip, and I just nod, thinking of what he told me about this particular gang, thinking of the man in that gang who used him and abused him.  
  
"But it turns out, they were also a part of something much bigger. They took me to this warehouse sort of place with a bunch of different rooms—more like cells, actually—where they kept a bunch of other people, all young guys probably in their teens, and all locked up in these cells. It was so fucked up." He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. "It was…fucking hell. It was like a whore house."  
  
My breath catches in my throat. “How did you get out? Is it still, like, going on?”  
  
"I, uh…I killed the guy that was using me and then made a run for it," he says simply, opening his eyes back up and pushing some of his hair away from his face. "Somewhere along the line, I guess I just sort of lost it. I wanted to kill myself, but they never let it get that far, even when they were beating me…so I started getting angry. My hopelessness turned into rage. You’d think it’d be the other way around, but then one day, I heard this…this kid. Screaming. And it just set me off."  
  
I raise an eyebrow. “ _Kid_?”  
  
He nods. “Like I said, we were all somewhere in our teens, but I could tell—his voice was still all high-pitched and everything—this kid had barely even started puberty. He couldn’t have been any older than thirteen or fourteen. And that was what kind of woke me up, made me think that it was them that deserved to die, not me.” He cracks a bitter smile that holds not a single ounce of happiness. “So I guess you could say I got better, because I don’t want to kill myself anymore. Just lots of other people.” Then he shrugs. “And I don’t know if it’s still going on. I only escaped a few days ago, and then I left an anonymous tip for the police. I don’t know if they’ve checked it out or done anything about it.”  
  
I nod slowly, trying to take in everything he just said. Fuck. These past three years have been hell for him, and it makes me so fucking angry. I want to kill them all now, too.  
  
"So…that’s my story, I guess," he finishes. "But I’ve got a question. I could never keep track of time in there, so can you tell me how long it’s been since I saw your lovely face?"  
  
I can’t help but smile a little at the last comment before turning solemn again. “Uh, about three years. More or less.”  
  
His eyes widen. “Are you serious? I’m  _twenty_  now?”  
  
I nod. He never told me how old he was, so now I know that he’s a year older than I am. “Happy birthday,” I say, cracking another small smile in an attempt to break the tension.  
  
"And happy birthday to you," he replies, kissing me on the cheek. "We should celebrate somehow."  
  
My smile gets a bit wider. “I’ve got an idea.”  
  
—  
  
"That was fun," Vic says. We’re standing a few feet away from the dead body—dead because of us. It’s nighttime now, and we’re on the second floor of the shitty old building where we found the person whose life we just ended. "It’s even better with two people."  
  
I smile, reveling in the adrenaline rush that that kill gave me. I used to worry about my humanity, my now practically nonexistent morals, but not anymore. It’s just a part of me.  
  
Maybe it’s because I’m so used to people hurting me and mistreating me. I didn’t want to be a victim anymore, so instead, I became the villain. I became the one that people would fear. I would be the one whom people begged for mercy. I would take all the pain I’ve been given, and I’d throw it back in their faces, see how it makes them feel.  
  
I step forward. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” I spit at the body, even though I know the person can’t hear me. “I hope it hurts.”  
  
Vic takes my hand and squeezes it, a serious-looking but otherwise unreadable expression on his face. “I wish you weren’t so angry,” he says finally, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “I wish the world hadn’t made you this way. I want you to be happy.”  
  
"I’m happy when I’m killing people," I say truthfully. I turn my head up to kiss him on the cheek. "And when I’m with you."  
  
He holds me tighter. “What if I died, Kellin? What if those guys come back for me or something? What would you do?”  
  
"Well, you nearly died three years ago," I point out. "And I kept on living. I’d get through it, just like I did before." And that’s true, too: I don’t need him in my life to survive—I know how to do that on my own. But he makes it a little bit better.  
  
Vic lets go of me for a second, but only so he can turn toward me and press his lips against mine. After a few seconds of sweetness, he runs his tongue across my bottom lip, and I open my mouth slightly.  
  
He guides me to the wall, holding me against it but making sure that I can still move. I wrap my arms around his neck, letting his tongue slowly explore my mouth. Even as we deepen the kiss, it doesn’t speed up; we’re kissing like we have all the time in the world.  
  
"I can survive without you," I say softly, "but I don’t want to if I don’t have to."  
  
Vic smiles against my lips, sighing blissfully into my mouth. “Then I’ll make sure you don’t have to.”  
  
—  
  
For about a week (more or less), it’s mostly kissing and killing, a routine that I’ll gladly get used to. We seem to pick our relationship up right where it left off, only with both of us villains instead of victims. What a development—victim to villain. We’re fucked up, but isn’t everyone? I don’t dwell on it too much, and I don’t think he does, either. We’re fucked up together.  
  
Vic has nightmares more often than I do now, because of the whore house, so most nights I stay awake with him, shaking him out of the grip of his subconscious. Sometimes he asks me whether or not they’ll ever go away, whether or not he’ll ever be able to fall asleep without fearing what will happen the moment he closes his eyes. I tell him that mine started to fade with time, that I started to learn how to deal with them, but that they still come for me every now and again.  
  
One night, I’m sleeping relatively peacefully when I hear some faint scuffling going on outside the warehouse. Almost immediately, I notice that Vic isn’t with me, and I shoot up to my feet, completely awake in an instant. Fuck.  
  
I rush out the door and round the corner, thinking in the back of my mind that the roles were reversed three years ago. Sure enough, there is Vic, in the middle of a fight with three guys. The sixteen-year-old me would’ve been terrified, but the nineteen-year-old me is just angry.  
  
I run over to the fight, pulling a knife out of my pocket and aiming it at one guy’s neck. The guy notices just in time and grabs my arm, twisting it.  
  
"Kellin!" Vic yells, punching one guy and trying to break his other arm free. "Get out of here!"  
  
"Oh, what do we have here?" asks the guy twisting my arm. "Is this Vic’s little whore?"  
  
He grabs my knife with his free hand and yanks it out of my grip, holding it up to my throat. Fuck. I’m good at killing, but not fighting.  
  
"Don’t—hurt him," Vic gasps, still struggling against the two guys attacking him. "Please. You want me? Take me."  
  
I reach up to grab the knife with my free hand, but the guy just moves it even closer to my skin so that one wrong move will cause my blood to spill everywhere. “You bitch,” he says to Vic. “Don’t think we don’t know it was you who shut down our little whore house. Well, look who we’ve got now? Your own little whore.”  
  
With that, he grips me even tighter and guides me to a car I didn’t notice before. Vic fights like hell, even breaking away from one of the guys, but he doesn’t get very far before the other one pulls a gun out and knocks him over the head with it.  
  
He stumbles to the ground, not completely out cold but close enough to it that he seems disoriented. Then two more guys are on me, and even though it’s three burly dudes against one scrawny nineteen-year-old, I can’t help but try to break away, careful to keep my head still so I don’t accidentally slit my own throat. “Vic!” I yell.  
  
Vic seems to come to his senses, standing up, and then he says something unexpected: “Wait. I’ll help.”  
  
Everyone freezes as Vic makes his way over and takes the knife, holding it up to my throat and staring me right in the eyes. I can’t read what’s in those eyes, so I can’t tell what he’s thinking. His entire expression has turned to stone.  
  
"I’ll help," he repeats, voice just as emotionless as his face. He moves the knife even closer to my throat—I’m afraid to even breathe, just in case the movement cuts my skin.  
  
 _Vic, what the hell is going on?_  
  
I don’t have time to think about it, though, because then I’m being shoved in the back of the car. I open my mouth to yell out again—not for Vic this time; just for anyone who might hear me—but something hits me in the head—the gun, probably—and after a few moments of pain, I find the world disappearing behind my eyelids.  
  
—  
  
I’m in a cell of some sort, or, at least, that’s what it looks like. I’ve got a mattress, a toilet, and a locked door, and that’s about it. This place seems like the whore house that Vic was talking about, but the guys said it was shut down, so this must be something different. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but for the first time in three years, I’m scared.  
  
I’ve been screaming for a long time now; my throat is all dry and stinging and scratchy. I’ve been begging them to let me out, but I’ve also been threatening to kill them, switching between anger and desperation. The only response I’ve gotten is a rough kick on my door and a harsh “Shut up, you little bitch.”  
  
I’ve been screaming for Vic, too. I want to know what he’s thinking, why he did what he did and helped them instead of me. I want to believe that he has good intentions, but I don’t have much experience with those types of people, so it’s a lot easier to believe that he’s betrayed me. This whole thing could’ve been a trick, right from the moment we reunited. Or maybe it was a trick even before then, on the night that we met the first time. I feel like he’d have to be a really good actor to fake all that, but I wouldn’t put it past someone to do it. Maybe Vic is just as bad as everyone else in the world.  
  
I don’t know how I’m supposed to escape unless I’m taken out of this room. I have nothing to use to try to pick the lock, unless I happen to grow my fingernails long enough that they might somehow be of help. I’ve been banging on the door for hours, until my body is aching and my knuckles are raw and bleeding, but it hasn’t budged. I’ve even tried breaking the lock with brute force, but that isn’t working either. But I can’t reason my way out of this, so the only options left seem to be to either keep trying to break the door or the lock, or to wait for the right moment. I don’t know when that “right moment” would be.  
  
Now I’m lying on my mattress, trying to fall asleep, when someone says something about food, and then I hear doors opening and closing, probably doors to other cells. People must be going around and bringing us food. I don’t even know if I’m going to eat mine. Maybe I’ll starve myself as a form of rebellion.  
  
But that thought doesn’t really have a chance to become reality, because even though it’s only a little bit of food, and it’s probably not even that great, my stomach is begging for something, and I’m not willing to resist. When I hear my door being unlocked, I jump up, suddenly thinking that maybe this will be my moment—maybe I’ll attack the person and make a run for it.  
  
That thought doesn’t have a chance to become reality, either, because when I lock eyes with the person, I nearly fall over. Vic.  
  
He seems just as surprised to see me as I am to see him. “I didn’t realize this was your cell,” he whispers, setting the tray of food down.  
  
I snap out of my trance and take a step forward, ready to punch him for turning over to the dark side, but he’s prepared and grabs both my arms, pinning them down at my sides. I struggle in his grip, about to scream some more—he knows I don’t like to be held back like this!—but he shuts me up with a kiss, letting go of one of my arms so that he can close the door behind him.  
  
“ _Shh_ ,” he warns against my lips, letting go of my other arm. “I’m sorry for that, but we have to talk, and we have to be quick and quiet about it so nobody notices.”  
  
I break the kiss off, nodding slowly and leaning against the wall. “Why’d you do it?” I ask. “Why are you with them?”  
  
"I’m so sorry," he says. "I knew we’d lost back there, and I had to think fast if I didn’t want to lose you, so I claimed that I would be their ally. I claimed that I’d help run this sick joint—it’s smaller than the other one, but the people who escaped before they could get arrested started another place like the one I told you about, I guess. It was a lie, Kellin. I was trying to gain their trust. I think they want us to stay away from each other, just in case it turns out that we’re working together, but they must’ve forgotten where they put you, or else they wouldn’t have wanted me to take this section—y’know, to give you guys food. There’s a couple of people working the other little areas. But I did all this so I could get into this place and talk to you, help you get out of here." He kisses me on the cheek. "I know it’s hard, but you have to believe me. I was just trying to help, and I didn’t have time to tell you the plan, since I came up with it on the spot."  
  
That paranoid, distrusting voice in my head is telling me that he’s a filthy liar who should die, but it doesn’t matter how much I love to kill people—I don’t want to kill him. I don’t hate him like the voice says I should. He looks so honest and desperate, and I believe what he’s saying.  
  
"Okay," I say softly. "So…what’s your plan?"  
  
Vic pulls a knife out and hands it to me. “Well, we’ve got our chance right now. We could just make a run for it, but even if we report this place, too, they might just keep doing what they’re doing. I don’t think it’ll really end unless we stop them…permanently.”  
  
I know exactly what he means by “permanently”, and it makes a slow smile spread across my face. “I like the way you think.”  
  
—  
  
Vic and I rush down the hall in opposite directions with knives in our hands. He told me how the place is laid out and where everyone usually is, so now we’re off on a little murder spree. This place is a lot smaller, so there are only four guys running it. I’m going to kill two of them, and he’s going to kill the other two.  
  
I find the first guy—one of the ones who attacked us—in the next hallway over, making his way down with his back turned to me. I sprint, and the moment that he hears my footsteps and turns around, I slash his throat, covering his mouth so that he can’t scream and stabbing him in the heart for good measure. I’d love to stay and watch him bleed out—at the very least, to make sure he actually dies—but I can’t afford to waste time, and he looks like he’s done for, so I pull my knife out of his body and move on to the second one.  
  
I find this guy in a separate room, where I hear screams and pleas for mercy. I burst in the room, where I see the guy pinning one of the victims to the ground. He looks up when he notices me and punches his victim in the face, sending him reeling and probably unconscious so that he can’t run out of the room. I recognize this guy as the one who grabbed me and held the knife to my throat. “Look at that,” he says, in an attempt to mask his obvious surprise. “It’s Vic’s favorite little wh—”  
  
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, because I stride up to him and slit his throat before he can react. I push him to the ground and shove my blade into his stomach, smirking as I let the adrenaline and anger fuel me. He only lasts a few seconds before he’s choking on his own blood, and I let out a small laugh. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this.  
  
The guy who was being attacked is looking at me with wide eyes—apparently not unconscious—and I hold my hands up. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m not going to hurt you. Get out of here.” I don’t have to tell him twice; he bolts for the open door like the devil is on his heels.  
  
I stand up, taking a deep breath and going back out into the main hallway. I’m just about to start searching for Vic when I hear his voice from another part of the building: “Kellin!”  
  
I sprint in the direction of the voice, heart pounding. He needs help. God, what if he dies?  
  
When I find him, he’s pinned to the wall of another room with one of the guys—I don’t recognize this one—holding a gun to his head. They’re both bleeding and breathing heavily, and they seem to be in the midst of some sort of staring contest. Vic lets out a small noise that I can’t really decipher. “I thought—I thought you died.”  
  
The guy smirks, shaking his head. “I was close, sweetheart, but you didn’t stick around to make sure. You ran for your life the moment someone said that I was probably dead. To be fair, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, either. Funny how that works.”  
  
Suddenly, I realize who this is: This is Vic’s supposedly-dead boyfriend, the one who abused him, and that makes me so angry that I can’t stand still a moment longer.  
  
"You son of a bitch!" I yell, rushing forward. The guy spins around, aiming his gun at me, but Vic breaks away and punches him before he can fire. I hold my knife up, just about to slash his throat, when he takes the gun and knocks me in the head with it.  
  
I fall to the ground, closing my eyes as pain rips through me. I can hear Vic’s gasp, so I flutter my eyes open and give him a discreet wink to let him know that I’m okay. When I don’t get up, I think he’s figured out that I’m trying to play dead—or unconscious—and seems to focus his attention back on his ex-boyfriend.  
  
I can hear some shuffling, punches and other sounds of fighting, though, thankfully, I don’t hear gunshots or anything of that sort. I dare to open my eyes and find that they’re only a few feet away from me, with Vic’s ex’s back turned to me. I take this as my chance and get to my feet, holding my knife up to his throat when he doesn’t expect it. He stops as I grab him by the back of the shirt.  
  
"This is for my boyfriend," I say, "you sick bastard."  
  
And I slash his throat.  
  
Vic nods in satisfaction and uses his own knife to stab his ex in the heart, then takes it out and shoves it into his stomach. I can see the rage in his eyes, a look that says,  _You hurt me, so now I’m going to hurt you._  
  
For a few moments, we both just stare at the body on the ground. Then Vic pulls his knife out and turns to me. “I killed the other guy, too,” he says. “I’m gonna report this place, and then we should probably get out of here—like, out of this city. All these dead people might catch up to us, and I think we need a fresh start after all of this.”  
  
I nod, because he’s right. This city is familiar, but I don’t want to stay in it—it holds too many bad memories, especially after what just happened. I want to start over somewhere brand new, and I want to do it with him.  
  
We rush out of the building and into the orange light—it’s either sunrise or sunset, though I can’t tell which one it is because I don’t know which way is east and which is west. Grabbing our very few belongings from the warehouse, we break into a nearby car, which Vic hot-wires. “Mike and I learned how to do it in high school,” he explains with a nostalgic expression.  
  
And then we’re off, speeding down the road with the wind blowing our hair. Vic constantly tries to fix his, claiming that it’s getting into his eyes, but eventually he gives up, laughing.  
  
At this point, I’ve figured out that the sun is setting, not rising, because it’s lower in the sky than it was earlier. “Look at us,” I say, taking Vic’s hand and kissing him on the cheek. “Riding off into the sunset.”  
  
"It’s symbolic, don’t you think?" he replies, smiling. "The end of everything that just happened. And then, tomorrow, the dawn of something new. The dawn of our lives as partners in crime…literally."  
  
I laugh. “Partners in crime. I like that.”  
  
Vic pulls over to the side of the road so he can kiss me full on the lips. It’s soft and slow and promising, a kiss of trust and loyalty and honesty and…love.  
  
See? Even villains can find their happy ending.


End file.
